


An Exact Science

by unofficialsherlockian



Series: The End is the New Beginning [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Gen, Language, Nightmares, PTSD symptoms, Post-Reichenbach, references to graphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unofficialsherlockian/pseuds/unofficialsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock adjust to life after Sherlock's return. But life is not, and can not, be the same as it was before, and the two work towards normality, or as close to it as the two can get. Healing after all isn't an exact science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves back into Baker Street.

Things started slow. 

Their initial case was the day after Sherlock's return. Double homicide, had the police stumped. Lestrade had smiled carefully as Sherlock and John had ducked under the crime scene tape, giving John a careful but pleased look.

And then Anderson had walked over slowly, stopping in front of Sherlock pensively.

"I-" but before Anderson could even say more than two words, Sherlock had cut him off with a tight look.

"I can only hope that with Sally gone, your intelligence will have gone up a bit more, Anderson."

Anderson had stood, looking surprised, for several seconds before he adapted his usual air. "As always, I don't want the scene contaminated."

His voice sounded stained, but John had seen Sherlock give him what appeared to be a grateful look. And as John passed him, he gave John a slight nod. John returned the gesture.

Changes.

 

John had a date with Mary, and told Sherlock to go ahead with the rest of their second case without him.

The entire evening, he'd gotten texts from Sherlock.

The first was merely _Tracked him down. Lestrade coming eventually._

John had been surprised, but Mary had taken his hand and smiled. "You were the one who said everything's changed.

Not too long later there was another text. _Appears to be armed. Not waiting for Lestrade. Will txt if injured._

And then finally: _Back at Bkr st. Safe._

Things had changed.

 

"Mrs Hudson asked me to move back in, by the way."

John could see the surprise register on Sherlock's face. Maybe during an analysis for a case at Saint Barts wasn't the best time to approach difficult subjects-neither man had been completely comfortable with the idea of coming here.

'It's fine if you don't want to,' Sherlock had said. It was something John needed to get used to still, Sherlock paying close attention to-and voicing that attention-John's emotions. 

'Wha-no it's fine. It's all fine.'

'We agreed you weren't saying that. Especially if it isn't.'

John looked Sherlock in the eye. 'I will be fine with it if you will be.' Sherlock blinked and John sighed. 'You look about as nervous as you think I do. Besides, you can't just ignore situations that bring up uncomfortable emotions or memories-otherwise they become triggers...'

'Yes.' Sherlock's voice had been soft. In the end, they had come, but both apparently ill at ease in a once familiar place.

'Is...is that even an option?' Sherlock looked confused. 'You're marrying Mary, aren't you?'

'We're engaged, Sherlock, there's a difference. ' John looked at him lightly. 'Not every couple lives together before they marry.'

'Ah.'

John waited a minute before deciding Sherlock wasn't going to say anything more. 'So, is it okay if I move back in?'

'Why are you asking me?' Sherlock looked at him and frowned.

John sighed. 'Because I'd be moving back in as your flatmate, you sod.' He looked at Sherlock. 'And I didn't know if that was still alright.'

'It's fine.' Sherlock looked up. 'It's always been, why would that have changed?'

'Why do you keep assuming that things haven't changed?' John asked quickly. Sherlock blinked. 'Nearly everything has changed. Our whole...relationship has changed. So why think that everything's still the same?'

Sherlock shrugged. 

John sighed and walked around to see Sherlock's progress.

'And yes, you may move back in. I haven't touched your bedroom.'

Another change.

 

John still didn't have very many things so he was moved back into Baker Street in one trip. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the kitchen during the whole ordeal. Not helping was normal. Not carrying on doing anything else was different.

'Something wrong?' John asked, stepping into the kitchen before carrying up his last box. Sherlock shook his head and disappeared into his room.

John frowned and wandered back into the hall. Sherlock had been very quiet and pensive the last week and a half that he'd been back. It was very unlike him. In fact, everything about the last two weeks was so very unlike Sherlock, and yet so very Sherlock. Nearly two years had changed the man, and yet he was still the same Sherlock John remembered. Maybe the man just needed time.

Lost in his thoughts, John nearly bumped into Mrs Hudson as she was walking up the stairs.

"Oh, John dear, I was just about to see if either of you boys wanted a cup of tea."

'Sherlock's locked himself in his room-" John tried to make his usual "Sherlock is being Sherlock" exasperated face, "-but I'd love one, thank you."

And John found himself in Mrs Hudson's flat, sitting at her kitchen table, listing to Mrs Hudson talk about how grateful she was to have her boys back. 

"He's changed though, Sherlock," John said quietly.

She smiled. "So have you, John." She chuckled. "You've gotten older, both of you. Two years of ... all that would do that to you, though I suppose."

John nodded. "I'm just not sure I like it so much." He realized how stupid he sounded. "I'm sorry mrs Hudson, I'm being stupid."

'No, not at all dear." Mrs Hudson smiled at him. "It's just going to take some getting used to."

John pulled out his phone as he heard it beep. It was from Sherlock.

_Case. Also, Mycroft wants to see you for dinner._

Finally a constant. Mycroft. And John owed him a punch in the face as well. It was going to be an interesting night.


	2. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All John knew was that Sherlock right now seemed to be less okay than John thought he had been._

'You're a fucking bastard, d'you know that?'

It was taking John every once of self-restraint to not punch Mycroft from where he stood in the Diogenes Club. as it was, he did make a fist and relax it several times, willing himself to stay calm. Mycroft noticed and gave a false smile.

'John I had merely wanted to congratulate you on your engagement and ask how you're getting on.'

'Not about Sherlock is it? Not anymore, not since you sold his safety to Moriarty, am I right?' John shouted. Mycroft frowned sightly.

'He and I have come to an...understanding, if you will. Things will never be fixed between us, not at all, I see that now.' Something like regret passed over his face and John blinked. 'But we do seem to be on the grounds of understanding, for the moment.' Mycroft sucked in a breath. 'His primary concern, you see, is you.' The taller man gestured to John.

'So he convinced you to spy on me instead of him?'

Mycroft sighed, steepling his fingers. 'I can see this won't be a dinner chat, will it?' He looked away from John. 'These past two years haven't been easy on any of us. I had to let him out of my sight. For 24 months. Because if I could track him, someone else could. But Sherlock told me to look after you, along with your landlady and that detective.' Mycroft looked at John with a bored expression. 'You probably can't imagine, but if he'd have died, I never would have known.'

John swallowed. 'So you knew the entire time, and you couldn't tell anyone?'

'If you'd let on that you knew he was alive-in any way-you would have been shot dead,' Mycroft said emotionlessly. Then he looked pointedly at John. 'Imagine what that would have been like on my dear brother.'

'I'm still not gonna forgive you, you know,' John said angrily. 'It's your damn fault he had to do any of this.'

'I know.'

John sighed. 

 

John put the kettle on as soon as he woke. At least Sherlock hadn't changed his sleeping habits--if he was off the cases, he would sleep in for ages. He leaned against the counter and sighed. It was easy, in a way, picking up like normal, because by no, even with a two year hiatus, everything had become habit. But it had been hard for him. It was the old life, but it was very different. Once again John wondered if Sherlock was also aware of the scope of the change his death and return had brought on.

'Tea, is it?' Sherlock pattered in yawning, and pointed to the kettle. John nodded, glancing over to Sherlock. The t-shirt and pajama bottoms hung over Sherlock's thin frame even more loosely than John remembered. It worried him to think about how much Sherlock's physical health might have suffered the past two years, let alone his friend's mental health.

Sherlock wandered to the desk, making a quiet noise as he sat. Not so intact after the last case after all, John thought. He made a mental note to keep an eye on Sherlock, hoping he was probably just sore.

'You're having some toast, at least, with the tea.' Sherlock made a neutral grunt. 'Any cases?' John asked, setting Sherlock's breakfast beside the man and then collapsing into his armchair so he could eat his own.

'Nothing, for now,' Sherlock murmured into his mug before taking a careful sip.

'Shame...Oh yeah, Mary's invited us for dinner.'

'Mmm.' Sherlock looked at John. 'At her flat?'

John nodded. 'She seemed to have liked you right after she met you. I think she wants to get to know you better. I think it would be a good thing.'

Sherlock leaned back and smiled ever so softly. 'No escaping it then. Besides,' he looked at John. 'Suppose I should make an effort with your fiancee.'

 

It was Friday night, an hour before Sherlock and John were due to leave for Mary's and John was impatiently waiting for Sherlock to return.

Then his phone beeped and he automatically checked it.

_Will be there soon. Slightly injured. May need to inform Mary we'll be late._

John swallowed, hoping Sherlock's definition of slightly injured was corresponding to his. _What happened?_

There was a few minutes wait before Sherlock's next text.

 _The killer had a knife. And basic fighting skills._ Then- _He is currently nursing a broken rib from Lestrade's boot._

John smiled and collapsed into his chair, phoning Mary quickly, telling her they might be late and he would explain when the pair got there. It seemed Lestrade was feeling as protective over Sherlock as John ever did, the difference being that John was usually there to harm Sherlock's abusers and Lestrade had to deal with an aftermath.

John looked up as Sherlock walked in and nearly gasped-the blood on Sherlock's face was dripped in a similar pattern to when his friend had died.

"John?' Sherlock crossed the floor slowly and looked at John with concern. 'It's nothing, bad, just messy-Lestrade said I may need stitches so I came straight here-didn't want to mess up our dinner plans, I know how important-' Sherlock, speaking very quickly, was cut off completely when John stood and hugged him, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder. 'John?'

John swallowed, and from his throat came an embarrassingly sob-like sound. Sherlock stiffened. "John?'

John sniffed and pulled away, turning from Sherlock and wiping his eyes. 'The erm-' he cleared his throat as his voice cracked slightly. 'The blood...it's stupid but it...looked like when you...fell.'

Sherlock was silent. 

'Sorry, I'm being stupid,' John mumbled.

'No.' Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper and John looked up at him. And then blinked in shock at how _sad_ his friend looked. 'I'm sorry, John.' His voice was a quiet purr, dripping with some misery at god knows what.

All John knew was that Sherlock right now seemed to be less okay than John thought he had been.

'Come one,' John grabbed Sherlock's upper arm and led him to the kitchen. 'Let's get you cleaned up.'

Sherlock nodded and sat at the kitchen table, away from the current dangerous experiment. John peered at his face for a moment-a long, messy cut on the left side, still bleeding steadily. 'Can't tell if it needs stitches yet, my guess would be no.'  

'Good,' Sherlock sighed. John smiled faintly. Sherlock hated stitches, however indifferent he pretended to be. 

'I'll clean it up, and put a couple strips of butterfly tape on it, and then we can leave, alright?'

'Yes.' 

John frowned as he looked for the bandages. 'You okay?'

'Yes John.' Sherlock turned to look at him. 'Just ...thinking.' 

'Alright.' John finished his first aid and Sherlock stood. He hesitated. 'Um...you won't...be incredibly rude to Mary, will you?'

'She's met me before, and hear about me through you-and that blog.' Sherlock looked at John. 'I think she's aware-she did ask us over there.'

'Right.' John was still pondering over how to broach the subject of how sad Sherlock seemed, and put it out of his mind for a while. Letting Sherlock be Sherlock was normally the best course of action-let the man do things in his own time, and things would work out. 'Come on then.'


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe the problem was that they didn't talk about things_

Mary's eyes registered the cut on Sherlock's face and then turned to John and hugged him. 'It's wonderful that you both could make it,' she said, holding open the door so they could come back inside. 'John, dear, hand Sherlock your coat, he can help me hang them up and you can set the table.

Sherlock smirked at John, playful amusement in his eyes and John shook his head at him before going into the kitchen. Mary led Sherlock to the closet and handed him a hanger. He hand was on his shoulder and her eyes were on his facial wound and she spoke barely above a whisper.

'Please be more careful. For his sake, at least.' Mary looked away. 'I don't think he could bear it if anything serious happened to you.'

Sherlock blinked in surprise. 'It's nothing we haven't dealt with before...' he said, sounding confused.

Mary sighed. 'He's had to deal with your suicide, Sherlock. He's dealt with enough. Everything's gonna remind him of that now, please try to think of that.'

'I-' Sherlock stopped and looked at her, frowning. Then he inclined his head and followed her to find John.

 

John was just glad that Sherlock and Mary got on so well. It was a fair handful of people who could deal with Sherlock without wanting to hit him, let alone talk to him as if he was a normal human being (John was glad to say that most of the time he filled both categories).

'So Sherlock, are you glad to be back in London?'

It was silent for a long time and John watched Sherlock chew his food slowly, thinking, perhaps, or remembering. 

'Definitely.' Sherlock looked at John. 'It's not the same anywhere else.'

Mary smiled. 'Where did you go? What did you do? John didn't say much on his blog.'

'We didn't discuss it, so that would explain it,' Sherlock said tightly. John swallowed and then met Sherlock's eyes as the man looked up.

'Why not?'

'Mary, it's fine.'

'No, it really isn't.' Mary looked at him. 'John you've been a wreck for most of the two years, and you can honestly say that it doesn't matter what he was doing instead of being here as your friend?'

Sherlock visibly bristled. 'I told him, and I'll tell you both now-I was taking down anyone to do with Moriarty.'

Mary nodded. 'Dangerous work, wasn't it? ' She looked at him. 'And was it worth it? Was it worth tearing John up like you did?'

Sherlock's face was white and John swore inwardly. He had no idea what was happening, he didn't want any of them in this position right now.

'Sherlock, it's fine. You're back, it's fine. Obviously it was worth it. Two years of not having you is worth every second of you back.'

'John, you can't pretend that you're not the least bit angry with him.'

'No, I can't, but Mary, you can't expect me to go off on him for doing the right thing.'

'Did he though? "Take them down", that means you murdered them, didn't you?' Mary had sounded calm for most of the conversation, but now she didn't. 'Listen, Sherlock Holmes. You broke John, you hurt him, and he's still suffering, and you may have him believe that whatever you went through was worth it, it but you won't convince me until I've seen my John whole again. And I think he deserves to know what happened to his best mate when he was presumed dead. John, don't pretend that you don't notice that he flinches with unexpected contact, or that he looks like he hasn't slept in days. Do't pretend that you're not concerned-'

Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table. 'I spent,' he said, his voice low and dangerous, 'the last two years-and I could give you the days, hours and minutes-tracking down every associate of Moriarty's. I spent that time killing, yes. But also dodging bullets and police and security cameras. I spent that time being cut open, beaten, and shot-twice. I spent it rarely sleeping and never knowing if I would have enough meals. And it was worth. Every. Second,' Sherlock finished with a hiss, the hands he put his weight on to stand as he held them on the table shaking violently. 'Thank you for inviting me to dinner. I'll see myself out-' he said between his teeth.

John winced at the sound of the door slam. 'What the hell was that for, Mary? he would have told me.'

She shook her head. 'And how many times was he gonna get hurt and scare you before then? how long would he go without sleep and worry you?' She looked at John. 'Go after him. And don't apologize for me, I meant all of that. I wanted to know how much he actually cared about you-that what you went through in the past two years wasn't entirely one sided.'

'Mary-'

'Go on.' She kissed him on the cheek. 'I'll clean up. Thanks for stopping by John. I'll call you tomorrow.'

All john could think about was how much Sherlock was going to hate her, and how he'd wanted just the opposite for the two of them.

 

When John finally got back to Baker Street, he found Sherlock seated stiffly at the kitchen table, glass beakers and chemistry equipment thrown across the floor and shattered, Sherlock's hands pressed tightly to his face and his frame shaking slightly.

'I'm sorry about that,' John said softly, stepping through the doorway and standing there, hoping Sherlock would give him some cue as to whether or not to touch him. 'I didn't know she would-'

'I faked my death,' Sherlock said softly and slowly, his voice shaking slightly, 'I watched Moriarty kill himself, I killed twelve men-twelve and went through...' He looked at John but didn't seem able to meet his eyes. 'And she tells me that it wasn't worth it?' Sherlock gritted his teeth. 'I suppose for her, two years in hiding would be half-way decent hotels, and not murdering to keep you...best friend safe and...' He trailed of his chest heaving.

John closed his eyes to compose himself and then looked at Sherlock. 'She shouldn't have made you talk about any of that, okay? That wasn't right. And listen, Sherlock-' Sherlock turned his head away, his arms crossed on top of the table. 'Sherlock.' And he looked at John, meeting his eyes steadily. 'I don't want to hear about it, until you're comfortable. If you're comfortable. That's how this works, right?' John recalled everything the two had been through previous, and how they barely discussed any effects it had had on either of them. Even the panic attack Sherlock had during the "Hounds" case and John's probably not so good reaction to it had been resolved quickly and effortlessly. John did not want to try to impose a new system on them unless they bother were comfortable.

Sherlock nodded. 'Tea.' He said.

'Alright.' John knew well enough that he would have to make it for them both. 'Also, stopped by Barts before I got her.' He tossed a prescription bottle to Sherlock and the man caught it, reading the lable.

'Sleeping aid.'

'Thought you could use them-if you want. There's not much I could give you-given your drug history, but...these should help.' John turned away to fill the kettle with water.

'John.'

He turned around and saw Sherlock's calm face.

'Thank you.'

 

John stood outside Sherlock's door later that night, listening to the quiet whimpers Sherlock was making in his sleep. He wondered if it was worth it, sending Sherlock off to nightmares, instead of being awake for hours. He didn't know which would be more damaging to the man's health.

Maybe the problem was that they didn't talk about things. The first night, Sherlock had said 'Well you did just kill a man.' Had John said how he'd felt versus pressing on, maybe their relationship would be different. They never talked about feelings, not even when Irene Adler was still in the picture. John could tell a little of what Sherlock felt, but the man had never told John directly. Again, there, it hadn't been a problem.

But now John was struggling to face life with a man he saw fling himself off and building, and Sherlock was struggling to handle real life, when whatever had taken place over those two years was invading his dreams. And neither of them could exactly help the other through it-at least not yet.

It was past two in the morning and John awoke to see a figure at his door. Before he could cry out in surprise, Sherlock's voice came.

'Just need to make sure you're still here sometimes...'

'Sherlock it's fine.' John sighed and sat up a little, 'Please will you sleep?'

Sherlock nodded and vanished from the doorway.


	4. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I spent two years with little to no control over...anything that happened to me....I thought that maybe...maybe coming back here...I thought I would have control here.'

John awoke to the sounds of a mournful sounding violin. He wasn't aware if Sherlock ever got depressed, but John knew that the violin said alot about his friend's emotional state, and right now it was sad.

'Morning,' John said, sitting with his laptop and a cup of coffee. It had always occurred to him that maybe he should try to talk to Sherlock in one of his 'moods' but never before now had it seemed so important. 'You okay?'

The bow paused and Sherlock's head moved a fraction of an inch so that the man could look at John out of the corner of his eye. ' 'Course. Why wouldn't I be?'

John looked at him for a while. 'Okay. Alright.'

Sherlock gave him a last confused glance before setting down the violin and beginning to read the paper.

'Did you sleep alright?'

Sherlock's fingers tightened on the paper slightly. 'Fine.'

John sighed. He wanted to help Sherlock, but he had no idea how. Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts.

'Please, John. Just leave it.' There was a small hint of desperation in his words. Then he said abruptly, 'There's been some killings of a couple teachers recently. Police have no leads. Thinking of having Lestrade contact the inspector in charge...'

John thought back to when he'd told Sherlock to stop assuming things had changed, because everything had changed. He'd been angry at the man who didn't seem able to see that. But maybe Sherlock was too fully aware of how much things had changed, even just for himself, and trying to establish the old familiar reality between the two of them was just his way of dealing with the immense amount of problems that those changes had seemingly brought on. And attempt at maintaining normalcy was probably Sherlock's way of keeping sane.

 

'So you have no idea what happened to him over those years?'

'John, I would have never thought you would be the one contacting me about Sherlock.' Mycroft's voice sounded surprised. Sherlock was working late at Bart's on an analysis with Molly. 'How is he?'

John hesitated. 'I don't know,' he said finally. Mycroft made no comment so he pressed on. 'He's not sleeping-which would be normal for him except for the fact that he...he gets nightmares when he does. He's also been alot...calmer and easy to deal with. He's also having problems with loud noises and sudden contact...' John bit his lip because he knew would Mycroft was thinking and didn't want him to say it.

'Have you considered the fact that my brother is exhibiting signs of-'

'Yes. I'm well aware of it, Mycroft. I'm a damn doctor and I've had the thing myself.' John swallowed heavily. 'I don't know how well he'd take it if I brought it up,' he finished lamely.

'Would you prefer to take it in your own stride or shall I find him some sort of therapist?'

John snorted. 'Yeah like that would go well. I could just see him with a therapist.'

'He's had experience with one before. It didn't go well.' Mycroft's voice was tight, but he sounded fond of the memory. Perhaps he was proud of his brother for refusing to cater to someone so base as a therapist. 'Just keep him safe, John. You know almost as well as I that he's no good if he's not safe from himself.'

'Yeah,' John sighed heavily. 'I just wish you could give me the best way to approach him.'

'The last time my brother was ... having problems was when he was using. A young detective inspector Lestrade was responsible for sorting him out, not me.' Mycroft's voice grew heavy. 'I have never been that sort of person for my brother, as you know. I'd suggest you talk to the inspector. Believe it or not, my brother got clean after meeting him.'

John could feel the tension over the phone; Mycroft was always calm and collected, but when talking about Sherlock's past with drugs, he always had a certain nervous and fearful edge that John wasn't fond of. Since he and Sherlock had never gone in depth with that part of the man's life, John could only guess as to why. 'Alright, I'll try.'

'Thank you, John...'

 

John walked into the kitchen the following morning and started making tea quietly before he heard whimpering from the next room. 'Shit,' he said silently. He padded into the front room quietly and saw Sherlock asleep on the couch, twitching slightly. 

Despite having been plagued by nightmares for so long, John never knew the protocol for anyone else experiencing them. 

Again, he was struck by the realization that Sherlock was here, and alive. That the man on this couch shouldn't really be here, but the trembling and quite noises were proof that he was a living being. John only wished that the man who lay a few feet away could have come back whole and well.

His thoughts were broken as Sherlock cried out in his sleep, and John crossed the few steps to him quickly, catching the man's shoulders and trying to shake him awake.

Sherlock let out a loud scream and shot up quickly, pushing John away from him violently as he backed up onto the couch, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with fear. 

John picked himself off the ground and stood at a distance, his hands out in front of him. 'Sherlock, it's okay-'

Sherlock let out a small noise, unable to control his breathing. He slowly raised a hand in front of him, a sign for John to give him space. His eyes were fearful and pleading.

They stayed there for a few minutes as Sherlock slowly regained control of himself. John slowly stepped forward as Sherlock's hand lowered and sat next to him, gently. He decided to wait for Sherlock to speak.

'Not the best sleep I've ever had,' Sherlock muttered after a while. He let out a small sad and desperate laugh, holding his curled head in his hands. 'Look at me, John. I can handle being threatened at gunpoint, but I'm reduced to a sobbing idiot after one bad dream...' He looked up to John. 'How did you cope with this?'

John blinked, startled. They never before had spoken of John's PTSD. And it hadn't occurred to John that Sherlock would even be willing to acknowledge that he was experiencing symptoms of it. 'I...' He swallowed heavily. 'I didn't really. I slept. And then...it would happen, and I'd wake up and not be able to sleep again. And then...you came along, and they just sort of faded away, along with the limp.'

Sherlock nodded softly. 'I'm sorry if that was...not good.' He gestured to John. '...Bringing that up...'

John shook his head wildly. 'No, no Sherlock, it's fine. Sometimes it helps to talk to people who've...experienced similar things.'

'Yes...' Sherlock laced his fingers and held his hands together tightly in his lap. 

'Hang on,' John said quietly. He got up and then returned shortly with a glass of water, which he handed to Sherlock. 'If there's anything else...'

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, holding the glass between his shaking hands. 'I spent two years with little to no control over...anything that happened to me. I had to hide all the time just to try to stay alive. I could barely plan who I would go after next, or where, because of how dangerous it was for the duration of the two years.' Sherlock looked up at John, the grey eyes too distressed. 'I thought that maybe...maybe coming back here...I thought I would have control here.'

John sighed. 'It's really hard to just make everything normal again when it's been different for a long time.'

'Like when you were in the army,' Sherlock said, his voice leveling a little.'

John nodded. 'Yeah. I saw and experienced things that I never had before. and then trying to readjust back her...to everything being normal...that was hard,' he said lamely. 'Sometimes it just takes time, I guess.'

Sherlock made a scathing noise. 'If my sanity will last that long.' He made a gesture towards John. You can go back to what you were doing...I'm going to have a shower.'

'Alright.' John started to make his breakfast and then stopped and leaned against the counter once he heard the shower turn on. This was definitely at least some progress, however small. Any sort of talk like this for Sherlock meant alot.

 

'Mycroft says I should talk to you about how to deal with a less than stable Sherlock.'

Lestrade set down the pint. 'Jesus,' he whispered. 'Not getting any better then?'

John shook his head. 'Had to wake him up from...a nightmare yesterday. We talked for a bit, but I don't think about anything that would help him. Mycroft said you were the only one who could get him clean when he was less than okay when you met him.'

'Yeah, but it wasn't so glamorous.' Lestrade shook his head. 'I found him fucking dying of an overdose about six or so months after I'd met him.' He met John's eyes. 'It isn't a way I like to think of him-nearly dead in my lap.' He shook his head. 'The next crime scene, he showed up high, so I walked him out of it, punched him in his bloody stupid face and told him I wasn't gonna deal with this anymore, I couldn't walk in on him too late the next time. I said he had to get clean, or I wasn't letting him onto my crime scenes anymore.' Lestrade met John's eyes. 'Have you checked him for drugs?'

John nodded. 'After I talked with Mycroft. Didn't find anything. Seems like he's clean. He doesn't roll his sleeves up though, or expose any part of him, really.' John made a face at Lestrade's playful look. 'You know what I mean-sometimes he couldn't be bothered with a shirt.'

'Ask him to be sure.' Lestrade took a sip from his pint. 'And fuck it if he gets upset. Just tell him how worried you are. I don't ever want to see him like that again, it was horrible.' Lestrade looked at John. 'With Sherlock, you need to be forceful and direct. Gentle be damned, you can do that later when he's a mess, but while he's pushing you away, just lay it on him.'

The last thing John wanted was to hurt Sherlock or bring back any bad memories, and he definitely didn't want to ask him about drugs. 'I will, when I can bring myself to.' John sighed. 'I'm angry at him, but just not enough.' He sat for a while thinking. 'I feel like I just need to leave him on his own for a while, let him be and see if he reaches out. After talking last night, I feel a bit better about that route. At least for now.'

Lestrade nodded. Then he tilted his head. 'Y'know, he's a completely different man since you've met him. So you probably know alot better than me what's best for him.' He smiled. 'I think I'd rather be coming to you for advice about him.'


	5. Danger Night

'How are you two doing?'

'Fine.' John frowned, looking over the top of his coffee at Mary. 'As close to fine as it we could be, given...well, everything.'

Mary took one of John's hands in hers. 'Has he talked to you about it yet?' 

John shook his head. 'No, and he doesn't need to if he doesn't want to. I still don't want to force him to do anything. We talked the other night; he said he missed being in control over the past two years. I don't want to take that away from him.'

'As long as he's not causing trouble for you.' Mary leaned across the table and kissed him.

'I love you,' John said. He still didn't know what to think about his life now, but he was just grateful that Mary was in it.

 

'I haven't looked around yet-we just found the body and decided it was time to call you two.' Lestrade led John and Sherlock into the house.

'Three murders later, of course,' Sherlock said under his breath. John smirked.

'Yeah, alright.' Lestrade showed them the body. 'Nothing unusual, just all killed the same way. Knife wound to the throat.'

'Obviously they knew their killer,' Sherlock said, looking over the body.

Lestrade nodded. 'And he was left-handed. That's the only thing we know. And so far there's nothing that links the four victims.' 

'Hmmm.' Sherlock motioned for John to look at the victim and he started wandering around the house. 'These don't seem random, there's got to be a link,' he muttered.

Lestrade shook his head. 'Maybe we'll find something here.'

Sherlock made his way to the bedroom and Lestrade watched John looking over the body. 'Have you hit him yet?'

John chuckled. 'No, we're doing alright.' He sat back and sighed. 'Somedays are better than others, I think.' 

Sherlock voice came from the other room. 'Lestrade.'

'Hang on a minute. Let me know if you find anything,' Lestrade said to John. He walked into the bedroom to find Sherlock staring into a drawer. 'What did you find?'

The grey eyes went up and met Lestrade's. And the usually strong voice shook; it was only then that Lestrade noticed Sherlock's hands trembling. 'Don't let me touch this.'

Lestrade moved to Sherlock's side swiftly. 'Shit,' he hissed, seeing the plastic bags of drugs at the bottom of the drawer.

'False bottom.' Sherlock was looking away from the drawer pointedly. 'Didn't know what would be in it-'

'Yeah, I know.' It registered to Lestrade that Sherlock was unconsciously rubbing his left forearm with his right hand. 'Sherlock.' 

'Hm?' Sherlock turned to face Lestrade, looking anxious. 

'I just need to ask and I want you to be completely honest with me, alright?' Lestrade looked into Sherlock's eyes. 'Have you used since you got back?'

'No.' Sherlock said, and the firmness of his voice was reassuring to Lestrade. 'I...I might need to leave, though. For now.'

Lestrade nodded. 'Right, yeah. John,' he called. 

John walked in. 'Yeah, what is it?'

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock was quicker. 'There's alot of cocaine and some heroin at the bottom of this drawer. I need to leave, for now.'

Shock flooded Lestrade's features.

'Um...yeah. Yeah, right.' John looked at Sherlock, surprised. 'I'll come with you.'

Sherlock nodded and swept out the door. John looked to Lestrade helplessly. 'That's not something I thought I would ever hear him talk about.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'Me either. He usually sees the drug habit as a point of weakness, so he never wants to bring it up.' He sighed. 'He was rubbing his right forearm-he did that alot back then if he felt like using at the time. I don't think he will,' Lestrade said sincerely. 'But he'll probably be upset with himself.'

John nodded. 

When he got to the street, Sherlock had already got a cab, so John slid in next to him. Sherlock twitched slightly, but didn't look away from the window. They sat that way in silence the whole ride back to Baker Street.

'I'm being an idiot,' Sherlock said quietly, once they'd gotten upstairs. 'This isn't supposed to happen. People are repelled by drugs, they don't want to just...' He closed his eyes.

'Sherlock, it's normal. When you've had an addiction, you could be triggered to want to relapse, even years after you've quit.

'Yeah, if only this was "years after",' Sherlock snarled.

John blinked at him, and then put his arms on the back of his chair, looking at Sherlock from where he stood. 'Okay. It happens.'

'I want to inject myself full of cocaine,' Sherlock said lowly, 'and all you can say is "okay"?' He shook his head. 'What the hell are you saying?'

'I'm saying it's normal, that it happens.' John looked at Sherlock. 'Lestrade said you hadn't used since you got back, I know that you won't. And that's okay.'

Sherlock snorted. 'It shouldn't be happening. It's stupid.' 

They were both quiet for a while. Sherlock paced a bit, rubbing his arm. 'When did you last use?' John asked finally. He felt like so many boundaries had been crossed today. Then again, that's what alot of days had felt like since Sherlock had returned.

'About six months ago.' Sherlock looked away from John. 'A week before that I was taken by some members of Moriarty's empire. They forcibly injected me.' He shook his head bitterly. 'I think they meant to kill me by an overdose, but of course given my history, that was far too ambitious of them.' He pulled back his left sleeve and showed John his arm, raked in thin scars and an ugly scar from being stabbed with a needle. 'I fought back, of course, but there were four of them.' Sherlock looked lost for words for a moment. 'I got away and a week later I found myself injecting. I haven't since.'

John put his lips together and swallowed. He didn't like the thought of Sherlock being forced drugs-he could picture him struggling, and then hating himself, wanting to inject afterwards and then a week later finally breaking down and doing so. 

'I almost relapsed the night after we had dinner with Mary.' Sherlock was still standing, seemingly having trouble keeping his hands still. 'I was angry. I knew it would be stupid-I paced around and,' he swallowed, 'trashed the kitchen...I knew I'd hate myself for relapsing, I know you'd be disappointed...so I couldn't.'

'I'm glad you didn't,' John said. 'And...I'm glad you told Lestrade about the drugs at the crime scene today and didn't touch them. That was really good, Sherlock.' He was quiet for a bit as Sherlock looked surprised and relieved. 'Does Mycroft know?'

'Does Mycroft know that I fucked up after over five years and now can't get to a crime scene of a murdered drug addict without worrying about relapse?' Sherlock's hands flexed into fists and then relaxed. 'No, of course not. He doesn't know anything that happened over the past two years, and he doesn't know about any of the aftermath-except for whatever you've told him, which I hope is nothing unflattering.'

'I think he'd have shown up here if I told him anything really worth the concern,' John said lightly. 'So...That's why you've kept your sleeves down and your shirt on?'

'I've always been a neat man, John.' Sherlock looked at John and gave him a slight smirk. 'Partially, yes.'

'Why else-?'

But Sherlock shook his head. 'Not...not yet.' He looked at John. 'You need to eat. Let's go out, and I'll text Lestrade about the murder case.'

'Alright.' John was still uneasy about Sherlock keeping things from him. And he knew he wasn't going to let the man out of his sight for a while, just to be sure.

 

_I used about six months ago. Haven't since. -SH_

_You didn't need to tell me. I trusted you when you said you hadn't earlier._

_Didn't want you doubting me. John knows the full story if you need it.-SH_

 

Sherlock stuck his phone in his pocket. 

'What did you tell him?' John asked. He hated Sherlock for not eating, but technically they were on a case. 

'I told him to look for a drug connection-that's probably his best bet. And tomorrow we're gonna visit the other crime scenes.' He hesitated. 'And I told him about relapsing.'

John nodded. 'He'll trust you anyways, you know. I think he's one of the people who knows you the best, he knows you don't want to mess up.' He was glad Sherlock had at least texted Lestrade; John didn't want to have to talk about it with Lestrade without knowing if Sherlock was okay with it. 'You'll let one of us know, right? The next time you feel like using drugs?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Obviously.' He looked at John. 'Generally people act more angrily when they find out about these things.'

John shrugged. 'My sister was a severe alcoholic. You've handled your problem alot better than she ever did. It's ...easier for me to deal with.' 

The rest of the night was quiet and peaceful. John didn't hear Sherlock pacing, or shouting, so he wasn't sure if the man was having a dreamless sleep or was simply sitting and thinking. But he was glad for Sherlock being honest. He ws glad that they didn't need to talk further about the problem, and that Sherlock was also willing to trust Lestrade. He only hoped things would continue to get easier.


	6. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Forgive me, this isn't really my area._

John to his credit was generally a patient man. With Sherlock Holmes, even more so than most people.

But it also didn't take much to piss him off and Sherlock making some snide ignorant comment about the family of a victim was definitely enough to piss him off.

'Of course they're gonna bloody care, no matter what he did,' John said. 'Why the hell wouldn't they?'

'Some people die without any impact, without leaving so many grieving people behind-'

'That's not even true; hell, someone probably mourned for Moriarty once he'd died.' John saw Sherlock stiffen. 'Why can't I mention him? Because he's the one who cause this two year gap? Or what?'

'No, it's nothing, John.'

'Like hell it isn't.' John waved his hand at Sherlock and Sherlock flinched. For some reason, it made John even more angry, despite having been used to it since Sherlock had been back. He supposed he was just tired of Sherlock not talking to him. 'And then there's THAT.'

Sherlock blinked at him, keeping his face blank, looking like he was daring John to say something. 

'THAT. The fact that you flinch alot now at everything. Oh, can I also mention the bloody nightmares, or how little you eat now, even for you?'

Sherlock swung around to glare at him. 'John-'

'When are we gonna talk about this Sherlock? You can't just ignore-'

'John, _shut up_ -'

'-symptoms of fucking PTSD!'

The word finally hung in the air long after John spat it at him.

They stood there as if no one else was around, glaring at each other, each wordlessly daring the other to look away. John thought that Sherlock looked betrayed under all that fury, but he didn't care. He was sick of Sherlock passing things off as nothing, and trying to get John to ignore them. He couldn't handle trying to be this calm all the time.

'Sherlock, John!' Lestrade was standing a few feet away, looking between the two of them. Sherlock spun away wordlessly and left the crime scene.

'Fuck,' John muttered angrily.

'What happened?' Lestrade walked out with John.

'I just got sick of him hiding.' John sighed. 'And then I mentioned Moriarty and he got angry...' He shook his head. 'Sorry...'

Lestrade shook his head. 'Nah. You both had that fight coming. I'd recommend leaving him to himself for a bit though, alright?'

'Yeah...I'll probably camp out at Mary's tonight.'

In the cab his phone signaled a text. He looked at the sender: Sherlock

 _Did my death really hurt you so much?_

John snorted. He wasn't even going to grace the idiot with a reply. He sat back in the cab, thinking about how stupid this all was. He'd been given a miracle-Sherlock back alive-but that catch was everything Sherlock had gone through during the two years they were apart-and all the grieving John had done. Everything had a catch.

He stepped out of the cab at Baker Street and dialed Mary's number. 

'Hey, are you free for dinner tonight? Sherlock left the crime scene, so I won't be on this case tonight.'

There was a small hesitant noise on her end. 'I've actually got dinner plans, John, I'm sorry. But we could do a movie later.'

'Yeah, let's do that. Call me when you want me over.'

He sighed before heading into Baker Street. However, his apprehension was unfounded-Sherlock hadn't come back to Baker Street. A brief flicker of worry registered in his mind before John dismissed it. Sherlock could easily take care of himself. John would allow himself to worry later if there was still no sign of the man.

 

His evening with Mary was quiet and a nice change after the day John had. He talked a bit about fighting with Sherlock at the crime scene.

'John, it's only been about a month, you know. Things don't change quickly.'

John frowned at her. 'I thought you wanted him to talk with me.'

She sighed heavily and then made a frustrated noise. 'He asked me not to tell you, but I think that's stupid. I had dinner with him earlier today.'

'What? Really?' John stared at her. 'Why?'

'He said he wanted to know what he put you through. So I told him.'

John's phone signaled a text for the third time in a few hours. He ignored it. 

'Sherlock was ... bothered that he didn't understand why you were continuously upset at him, as he put it, for trying to deal with his problems. So we talked. That's about it.' Mary looked at John fondly. 'He's a good man, John.'

John raised his eyebrows. ' _No one_ used to think that.'

'Not even you?'

'I did after a while...I guess maybe I still do.'

 

He got home after midnight and Sherlock was no where to be found. his phone beeped, however, as John took off his jacket, and he finally stopped to read the text.

_Getting info from homeless network. Will be concerned if you aren't there when I am back. Will be back late.-SH_

John smiled faintly and then saw that he'd missed ten previous texts from Sherlock.

_Need to talk to you. Had dinner with Mary_

_We had sex. Come on John_

_I was lying of course, but we need to talk, where are you?_

A few more of the same note until-

_I'm sorry for what I've put you through. I had no idea you would be so affected. Forgive me, this isn't really my area._

And John sighed.

 

John awoke with a blanket on him that he hadn't grabbed before he fell asleep and the sounds of harsh crying out in his ears. Without even thinking he shot up off the couch and rushed into Sherlock's room. He was tired of leaving Sherlock alone.

'Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!' The man was thrashing in his bed and John finally gripped the man, shaking him awake. Sherlock's grey eyes cut through the dark, wide and alert and glossy. 'You were screaming,' John whispered.

'I-' but Sherlock had barely spoken before lurching out of bed and hurrying into the hall. John stood up to follow but then winced as the sounds of Sherlock throwing up in the bathroom hit his ears. He didn't want this. John didn't think Sherlock was someone who should be throwing up out of fear from a dream. It wasn't him.

He didn't want to stop and think about this. Thinking about it would mean he would debate on how to help Sherlock, instead of just acting on it. So John stepped into the hallway and knocked on the door to the bathroom.

'You okay?' he said, not because he didn't know-he did, all too well-but because it was habit. It was his customary form of preamble when Sherlock was acting differently emotionally or otherwise. He hated asking it, because he didn't want Sherlock to reply, but he didn't know what else to say.

Sherlock slowly shook his head, still bent over the toilet. 'No,' he said, and his voice was rough. 'No, John...'

John stood in the doorway patiently and Sherlock retched one last time before staggering away from the toilet to the wall and leaning back against it.

'I...can't....' And Sherlock's voice cracked. John stepped forward slowly, his mind blank as he knelt in front of his friend. 

'Sherlock...' John blinked because the grey eyes met his and he read nothing but fear and pain and distress in them. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be vulnerable. Sherlock was an exceptional human being who wasn't supposed to have fear from trauma; this wasn't okay. 'Why is this happening, Sherlock?'

Sherlock shook his head. It was a while before he slowly stood and watched John do the same. 'Go back to sleep,' he said gently. 'I'm normally okay after I have ...one of those dreams.' 

'I'll sleep in the front room, just in case,' John offered. 

The grey eyes softened. 'I'm alright, John. Goodnight.'

'Sherlock.'

The man stopped outside his door but didn't turn to John. John pressed on. 'Will you tell me about it tomorrow?'

There was a silence. Then-'Yes, I believe I will.'


	7. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I've always been prepared to accept that I might die someday..."_

John was awake relatively early and started making tea and toast-enough for Sherlock as well, even if he was fairly certain that his friend wouldn't want to eat. He sighed, wondering if Sherlock would really be willing to talk with John about whatever had been affecting him so badly since his return. Part of John wanted to know, the other wanted to leave Sherlock his privacy. 

Then he heard the shower turn on and decided to simply go about his morning normally, trusting that Sherlock would talk to if he needed to.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock walked in slowly, wearing a pair of trousers and carrying a shirt slightly balled in his hands, hiding his torso from John's view. John sighed quietly; hiding didn't suit Sherlock.

'Morning,' John said calmly. His eyes were drawn to the still nasty needle scars on Sherlock's left forearm. He blinked sadly, wishing there was a way for that arm to be whole again and then looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him with a softened expression.

'You'd be surprised how much worse things got,' he said quietly and then lowered his hands, the protective shield of a shirt dropping away from his chest before John could even ask what he meant. Too many scars, John noted, although one would have been too many. But the worst was a large mark to the right of Sherlock's heart-too close, far too close. 

'Jesus. What happened to you?' John breathed, and still slightly shocked, stood, an impulse to make himself available to help, even though he was aware that he could not heal anything here.

Sherlock nodded to John. 'What can you see?' John must have given him a look to match how he felt because Sherlock shifted. 'It would be better than me just telling you what you can see.'

'Knife wounds,' John said quietly and Sherlock let out a low chuckle.

'Just like you, John. The obvious is staring you right in the face and yet in order to avoid causing hurt, you'll bring up the less serious matter.' Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Just go at it.'

'Alright, fine. Bullet wound,' John said. And he couldn't help himself; his fingers were on the wound trembling. It looked so wrong on Sherlock's body-hell the one on John's shoulder still looked out of place years later.

'Did say I was shot twice,' Sherlock pointed out. 

'Yeah but you didn't mention in the exact same spot at the same occurrence so close to your heart,' John said, his voice wavering.'My god...'

Sherlock's mouth made an uncomfortable wincing movement. 'Short while after the forced overdose-after I'd gotten away and taken care of them. Few members of Moriarty's accosted me in a alleyway, said they were sick of playing. One knocked me down and then the other...' Sherlock gestured wordlessly to his chest and swallowed, '...twice before I could even move.' John registered that Sherlock's hands were shaking. 

'How the hell did you get away?' John asked.

'I didn't,' Sherlock said, his voice flat. There was something haunted behind his eyes. 'I couldn't breathe. They thought I was already dead so they just left me there. I ...felt like I was trapped. My body wouldn't move for me, I couldn't breathe or think...everything felt fuzzy and numb and painful and then it was just...white.' A shudder passed through Sherlock's body and he whispered faintly. 'For four minutes at least, I was legally dead.'

John inhaled quickly. 'No...' He thought of Sherlock bleeding out alone in an alley, unable to move or breathe....

Sherlock nodded. 'Sometime before the ambulance got there...heart stopped. Couldn't restart it there, apparently, but did later in the ambulance.' Sherlock's breath hitched. 'I was...completely out of it for two days-apparently had surgery to try to get the bullets out when I got there, woke up two days later in intensive care... Nurse told me what was going on after I could speak clearly...told her I felt like I was going to throw up, she went to get the doctor, I got up and left.'

'Sherlock, hell, you can't just leave intensive care!' John shouted frantically.

'I did... everything...everything hurt, John. My body felt like everything was numb and fuzzy and wouldn't work again...Staying in one place again was dangerous, tracking down a John Doe gunshot victim would've been easy for the men I was fighting against, so I got as far away as I could and then collapsed for three days...' Sherlock smiled faintly. 'Probably didn't take as good care of the wound as I should have.'

'Idiot...' John muttered. 'God...'

'Of course, the nightmares of...not being alive cropped up a few days later. Everything was just...too much so I ended up in some abandoned building injecting myself for the first time in years...' Sherlock didn't need to say it; it bled through the tone of his voice: "Pathetic."

'It's fine,' John said. 'Sherlock, I'm ..I'm just glad you finally told me.' 

Sherlock nodded clearing his throat. 'Well I...' he gestured meaninglessly. 'I'd never really...experienced something like this, I never know what to do when my own mind is betraying me. For years, it's worked to just carry on as usual, sort some things out. But then...' He tilted his head, looking at John. 'The drugs came up with you and I found that talking...talking about it...' he made a simple shrugging gesture that said so much to John. '...that helped.'

John nodded. 'I'm sorry when I said I didn't trust you. And I'm sorry for thinking alot that I'd had the worser end of the stick-I was talking from the experience of a person who had to watch his friend kill himself, not from someone whose friend had been through hell and back to help him.' John shook his head. 'I can't imagine...dying and being aware of it. That must have been awful.'

'Hmm.' Sherlock looked past John. 'I've always been prepared to accept that I might die someday through my work. And then while trying to take down Moriarty's empire and all his work. I thought I was prepared for it but...' he shook his head contemplatively. 'Nothing could have prepared me. The only thing I was glad for was that I was alone in that alley.'

'Why?' John asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

'I was afraid,' he said simply. 

At first John just nodded and then the impact of what Sherlock had said hit him. He thought back to the last time Sherlock had been afraid-at Dartmoor after seeing "the hound." Sherlock had been having a near panic attack, crying and shaking, completely not himself, not in control and despite all his protests, not fine. John could only imagine Sherlock in his- what he would have thought had been-last moments, probably crying and panicking despite having no air to breathe. John shook his head. 'At least you're still alive.'

'Yes.' Sherlock gave a quick smile. 'yes, I'm glad that I am.'

 

Two nights later Mrs Hudson was cooking for them and Mary. She'd said that she would like to get to know one of her boys' future wives. John had cleaned off the kitchen table and was putting dishes out while Sherlock was composing on his violin. For once the tune was more exciting and happy than the long morose sounds that had filled the flat for so long. 

Things definitely weren't the same, but the old familiarity had set back in.

'Lovely Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen as Sherlock finished playing. John smiled and walked into the front room to Sherlock. 

'What are you looking at?' he asked when Sherlock didn't look away from the window despite John's presence. Sherlock blinked once and then looked at John.

'Sorry, nothing. Just thinking.'

'You sure?' John said. He looked out the window, briefly. 'Looked like you saw something.'

The bell rang and John smiled at Sherlock. 'That'll be Mary,' he announced happily.

'Hurry let her in John,' Mrs Hudson said. 'Food's almost ready.'

John led Mary up into the kitchen where Sherlock was helping Mrs Hudson get the food to the table.

'Hello, Sherlock,' Mary said.

Sherlock nodded to her, giving her a faint smile. 

'Mary, it's good to see you,' Mrs Hudson said fondly. 

Maybe things would be alright after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to just leave the Return after the actual return. Because there would be consequences to anything that happened during that two years, and they would all have to deal with that in different ways.
> 
> Alot of the chapters in this fic were written and then edited several times before they were posted simply because of how difficult it is to write Sherlock vulnerable. Because even in those situations, he would have to have some degree of control of the situation all the time, otherwise he is out of character. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading; any feedback would be really appreciated!


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